


(in our bedroom) after the war

by Ejunkiet



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Radio Interview Request, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: When Karen had received the invitation from WNEX station to speak on Trish Talk, the most popular radio talk show in the city, her first instinct had been to say no.--
“With all due respect ma’am, that’s bullshit. Most people, see, wouldn’t be so easy to let the other things” – murder and brutality, bodies littering the floor of the diner and blood on her hands and face – "go. They don’t seek to understand them. They get one good look, and get the hell away.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> Happy belated Halloween!! This is late and I am sorry for that, October has been absolutely crazy , and computer issues did not help the situation any. I hope my wonderful giftee likes this -- their story made my week~

When Karen had received the invitation from WNEX station to speak on Trish Talk, the most popular radio talk show in the city, her first instinct had been to say no.

The response to her article on vigilantes in the city (more specifically, the recently ‘deceased’ Frank Castle, otherwise known as the Punisher) had been mostly good - it had been well received by news outlets outside of the city as well as internally - but she'd had her fair share of critics, those who thought her reporting of the man behind the trial had been skewed by her brief association with him.

It turns out she wasn't the only one with sources within the police department, and after the initial leak, the stories about the events of those few weeks - her presence during the murder of the District Attorney and the need for police protection afterwards - had started printing thick and fast.

After the first bout of accusations were made against her, some suggesting she had 'Stockholm syndrome', others that she had some sort of sick fascination with mass murderers, she’d closed down her public email account, setting up a work-specific one and recruiting one of the other staffer’s aides to help her sort through the spam. After careful deliberation, she’d decided to keep her twitter account and tip line, although they were now heavily moderated and monitored by a private security company that worked for the paper.

The private security firm was a recent development, instated after she’d received several threatening emails from individuals who’d claimed to be affiliated with the gangs Frank had targeted during his killing spree. They’d yet to make good on their promises though, and after a few months, the stir she’d created with her article had begun to die down, her notoriety fading until she was just one of the faces in the Bulletin newsroom, another journalist with an axe to grind.

In the end, Karen declines the invitation. It’s not that she’s not interested – as she _is_ : she’d grown up with the stories of Patsy Walker, and the exposure would do wonders for her career – it’s just that she doesn’t want to live off of the same five minutes of fame for the rest of her life. Karen Page was more than ‘that journalist that wrote about vigilantes in New York’.

It’s less than a day before the executive producer of Trish Talk calls her personally and asks if she could meet with Trish Walker sometime during the next week. She's sincerely flattered by the offer, although she still has her reservations. After an hour or so of deliberation, she calls them back to let them know she will agree to a meeting. If the producers of Trish Talk were willing to go to these lengths to arrange a meeting with her in person, the least Karen could do was agree to a conversation.

That’s why, not two-days later, Karen finds herself face-to-face with none other than Trish Walker herself.

\--

Trish Walker is as well put-together as the bus stop and billboard advertisements suggest, carrying herself with a casual grace and easy confidence that speaks to a long and successful career in media production.

The personal assistant that had been her guide through the WNEX station takes her straight up to Trish Walker's office, rapping on the frame of the office’s open door. Trish Walker glances up from her monitor screen and breaks into a brilliant smile when she sees them in the doorway. “Karen Page. I’m so glad you could make it.”

She gestures at the chair opposite and Karen takes a seat, unable to stop herself from glancing around at the well-lit, elegant space. You could fit her entire apartment into this single room.

Taking a breath, she meets Trish Walker's expectant gaze and cuts straight to the chase. "Can I ask why I’m here?”

“You’re here because I’m starting a new segment to highlight the achievements of successful women within the city, and I’d like you to be our first interviewee.”

Karen takes a moment to consider this, but she can’t see the angle here. “This is about _me?_ ”

Trish’s lips quirk into a smile as she gives her a long, considering look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Karen doesn’t know what to say to that. “I’m still not sure I understand.”

Trish appears unfazed by the question, her eyes glittering as she leans forward slightly in her chair.

“I’m interested in _your_ story, Karen. After you published that article, you garnered a lot of attention, not all of it good. My aim for the segment is to cut through all the embellishments, the lies, and get down to the _truth_ of it. I want to give you a chance to talk frankly about your article and the controversy surrounding it, in your own words.”

Having said her piece, she settles back into her chair, folding her hands on her lap. “So: what do you say?”

\--

After a day’s deliberation, Karen sends an email to the WNEX offices, agreeing to the interview.

\--

“It sounds as if you went through a lot during those months. On behalf of our listeners, I’d like to thank you for your candour.”

Trish smiles at her from over the microphone, carefully folding the interview script and placing it on the table. After a moment Karen returns it, feeling lighter than she’s felt in weeks.

“Not at all, I’m glad for the opportunity to set the record straight.”

“We’ll be taking a few questions from our listeners now. Mrs. Turner, you have a question about Miss Page’s role in the firm Nelson and Murdock?”

The questions are simple, more curious than anything else, and as the interview draws to a close, Karen finds herself beginning to relax. This feels – good. Cathartic, really. She hadn’t realised that she’d wanted this – a chance to confront the accusations that had been slung her way over the last few months, and finally put this whole matter to rest.

There's a soft buzz from the table, and she glances down at her phone as the screen flashes with an alert. It's a message from Foggy, a smiley face and a thumbs up, and she suppresses a smile as she reaches over to switch it off. He was the only person she'd told about the interview, and he'd had nothing but praise for Trish Walker. She needed to remember to thank him later.

The red light in the corner flashes, and Trish glances towards Karen, raising a brow in silent question. At her nod, she turns back on the mic. 

"We have time for just one more caller." 

Karen lets out a long breath, smoothing her hands along the line of her skirt. It’s down to the last caller on the line. She’s just beginning to think that this will be okay when the whole world turns on its head.

"Mr. Castiglione, you're on the air."

"Thank you ma'am."

For a long moment, Karen can’t find the space to breathe. That voice – there’s no way in _hell_ she could mistake that voice, the distinct, low timbre invoking memories of late night diners and shitty coffee with the stink of gunpowder in her nose.

"...here, let me see if I've got this straight." Frank Castle continues, his tone light, almost conversational. "Miss Page was held hostage by this guy - this Punisher. He tricked her, nearly got her killed in a shoot-out in a diner -"

Trish frowns, a delicate movement of a brow, as she glances at the blinking red light indicating the caller. He’s slipped up, revealed that he knows more about that night than had been released to the public, but if he notices, it doesn’t put him off his stride.

"- but she doesn't hold it against him."

"I'm not sure what your question is," Trish begins, but Karen raises a hand, touching her arm as she asks her silently to wait. She does, although Karen can tell by the look in her eye - the way she carefully rearranges her hands in her lap -- that this isn’t over, not by a long shot.

"I think what Mr. Castiglione is asking, is why, given my history, my article does not outright condemn the actions of the late Frank Castle.” She lets out a long, slow breath but she’s gotten over the initial shock of hearing his voice again. It’s been – how long? Six months. Six months since the incident with the – for lack of a better term – _ninjas_ who’d abducted her and a dozen other people and held them hostage in the docks _._ “It’s a good question, and you’re not the first person to ask it.”

Silence reigns over the line as she takes a moment to organise her thoughts, acutely aware of her audience and the inherent limitations of this form of communication. _Nothing_ she says here will be enough; there’s nothing that she could say in her allotted time that could negate the finality of their last exchange – but maybe she can get him to _understand_.

“The point of the article was to shine light on the life of Frank Castle: the man, the soldier, the father. He deserves our understanding, even if we can’t condone his actions - and he did not exist in a vacuum. The details of his life, the events that led to him to becoming what he was: they’re all important, and they should be known.”

“With all due respect ma’am, that’s bullshit.” Trish raises a carefully manicured brow at that, glancing Karen’s way as he continues, “Most people, see, wouldn’t be so easy to let the other things” – murder and brutality, bodies littering the floor of the diner and blood on her hands and face – “ _go_. They don’t seek to understand them. They get one good look, and get the hell away.”

He isn’t wrong. She knows it, and he knows it, which leads to his actual question of _why_.  Ellison had asked her as much a few months ago. She thought she’d had an answer then, but then came that night in the woods and Matt’s confession, and she couldn’t say she was certain about anything, anymore.

She responds with the one thing she can say: “well, I’m not most people.”

There’s another brief silence after that, before he finally speaks again, the words barely audible over the crackle of static. “No. You’re not.”

He hangs up, the long note of the dial tone filling the air before Trish cuts the line. She’s unfazed as she wraps up the show, even as Karen struggles to maintain her composure, her heart beating a frantic rhythm within her chest.

When the microphones are switched off and the credits start rolling, Karen finally feels as if she can breathe again. Trish reaches out to her as she turns to leave, an unspoken request to wait. There's unwavering certainty in her expression when she says, “that was him, wasn’t it.”

It’s not a question, and Karen doesn’t pretend it is. “Yes.”

“Do you need help?” Trish Walker’s eyes are hard, watching her with an intensity she hadn’t expected to find in someone like her: sharp edged and clear, easily piecing together the truth from the glimpses she’d caught during their brief exchange. “I have a friend – someone who could keep an eye out, let you know if he gets too close.”

Karen’s waving her off before she’s even finished making her offer. “No, it’s – fine. He’s a – he’s not a threat.”

Trish’s mouth presses into a thin line as she gives Karen a long, considering glance before letting out a breath that is more of a sigh than anything else. She nods as she says, “Fine. I’ll trust that you can handle this yourself.”

She doesn’t look happy about it though, and after another moment of deliberation, she raises one carefully manicured finger and turns back to her desk, rifling through papers until she finds a pen. Picking up one of the pages of the interview script, she scrawls down a series of numbers in a looping script before tearing off the paper and placing it in Karen’s hand.

Karen stares at the ten digit code for one long second before she tries to give it back. “This really isn’t-”

“Take it, please; just in case. Call me if something changes.”

Something in the way she says it causes Karen to take the paper, and twenty minutes later, she finds herself back inside Ben’s old office staring at the number, the notes for her latest article spread out across her desk.

After another couple minutes of deliberation, she programs the number into her phone. It’s not as if she thinks she’ll ever have need to use it – but she’s not inclined to throw away a gesture like that, not one made in good faith.

Placing the phone firmly on her desk, plugged into its charger, she turns her attention back to the day’s work, pushing the events of the day from her thoughts as she buries herself in police reports and court testimonies, chasing her story further down the rabbit hole, wherever it may lead.

\--

Karen’s ready when Frank turns up on her fire escape not two days later, looking battered and bruised and generally worse for wear.

“Look. Can we - talk?”

“Come on in.”

She steps back from the window, giving him space as he clambers over the frame.

He’s wearing that same goddamn baseball cap that he’d worn the last time he’d shown his face in public, the low brim hiding his expression from her as he glances around the apartment, taking in what’s changed and what hasn’t. The white plaster marks stand out starkly against the wall, a reminder - a warning – of their last encounter. She’d been meaning to get around to repainting, but between work and various work-related meetings that kept her out at all times of the night, she finds she doesn’t spend that much time in her apartment anymore. (It’s no great loss – her apartment had never been much to speak of to begin with.)

His mouth is set into a grim line when he turns to face her, and she can tell before he opens his mouth that she’s not going to like what he came here to say.

“Listen, this - this _sympathy_ , or whatever it is you’ve got going – it ends tonight. I don’t want it, and I sure as hell don’t need it.”

Karen lets out a laugh, and it’s a harsh, abrupt sound in the stillness of her apartment. He doesn’t say anything else, and she wraps her arms around her midsection, rubbing her arms against the cold that crept into her apartment behind him.

She’s not sure what to say to that. There’s nothing _to_ say. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

He paces a step, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I need your assurance that you’ll let it go. Me – _this_ \- it has nothing to do with you. You need to drop it, before it gets you killed.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then _make_ it that simple.”

Something snaps. _“No.”_ Frank opens his mouth to speak, but she’s speaking again before he can get the words out; he doesn’t get to come here and make decisions for her. “You don’t get to dictate shit to me, Frank.”

It’s been six months. It’s been six months, but the memories of their last encounter are still fresh in her mind, still raw. She takes a breath, tries to centre herself once more, draw out the arguments she’d prepared, pushing down the emotions that are threatening to break free of the restraints she’d placed on them. Frank wasn’t one to react to emotional outbursts, and she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. This was her life. “I write about the Kitchen. All of it. That’s not going to change.”

He’s looking at her now, _really_ looking, and suddenly she’s back in the diner half a year ago, sharing a pot of coffee with a scrap of a man with bruises on his knuckles. She can’t tell if he finds what he’s looking for before he glances away.

He says something then, something soft under his breath that she doesn’t quite catch, but he’s moving again before she can ask him about it, taking a stand adjacent to the couch, fingers curled around the worn upholstery.

“Okay,” he continues, and he’s looking at her again, seeing far too much. “Okay. Let’s look at it another way. What about the ones that are going to have to go on without you? What about Murdock and your other lawyer friend?”

“This has nothing to do with them.”

He lets out a harsh snort, his hands tightening in their grip on the cushion, his battered knuckles gleaming white in the low light. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. This has everything to do with them. What happens to you -- it affects everyone around you.”

“Is that why you’re here, Frank? To remind me of just how much I have to lose, how much you lost?”

She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth.

Frank looks away from her, then. The bruises appear deeper in the low light coming from the window – he’d kept the lights off. Something crosses his expression, too fast for her to read before he glances down, turning his face away.

 “Wait.” She hesitates as she says it, takes in the way he’s trembling, the muscles in his arm taught with tension. She lets out a breath, measuring what she’s about to offer, what it means. “Stay. Have a cup of coffee.”

_Please_ , she doesn’t say. _Don’t leave it like this. Not again._

He’s shaking his head before she’s even finished speaking, the hard set back in his jaw. “I shouldn’t.” He goes to leave, hesitating when he reaches the window. He turns back to face her and he’s a blank slate once again, his expression wiped clear of any traces of emotion. “Think about what I said.”

He leaves. She places her phone down on the table, cancelling the speed dial as she burrows her fingers into her hair and stares at the floor.

“Fuck.”

\--

In the first draft of the next article she writes, she doesn’t mention Frank at all, barely even alludes to his activities. It’s as if his ghost has left the city, and the Punisher has finally died.

She scraps the draft and rewrites the article. She says it’s because the misdirection makes her feel dirty, tainted, and by the time she finishes the revisions, she’s almost convinced herself that was true.

Then she catches sight of her window, the scuff on the sill from his boots, and she realises that maybe that’s the reason she can’t let this go. This story isn’t over yet - Frank is as much a part of her life as he is a part of this city, and just as surely as she’d continue to write about him, she knew he’d be back.

She finishes the copy in one night and submits it to her editor in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to the wonderful evilbunnyking for helping trim the fat on this, as seriously, it needed it. The title is a reference to the stars song, "in our bedroom after the war", which is bittersweet as heck.
> 
> Small updates have been made... so this may have been kicked up, I'm not sure. Sorry if you're seeing this a second time!


End file.
